


First Encounter

by malchanceux



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Alien Abduction, Alternate Universe, F/M, Female James T. Kirk, Genderbending, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-warp Earth, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 13:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18344441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: Pre-warp Earth, modern AU.Spock is the head scientist of a party of Vulcan's designated to the study of Homo sapiens. Their field outings vary, but often it leads to the catch and release of human specimens. On one particular outing, one Jamie T. Kirk is the target of our eccentric scientists.Porn ensues.





	First Encounter

 

 

 

 

 

The night air is sticky and thick with humidity, makes Jamie’s tanktop and sweats cling uncomfortably to her skin; makes her sockless feet feel pasty in their boots. She thinks about actually stuffing the Davidson boys full with buckshot this time—teach’em to mess with her horses again. This is the second time in a month she’s had to chase them out of her stables and off her property. It’s gettin’ old.

Jamie hears one of the horses buck against their stall door, distressed, and breaks into a brisk jog. She’s exhausted, it’s two in the damn morning, and despite the anger coursing through her veins her eyes are heavy with sleep and mind muddled in a fog. If she wasn’t dragging her feet across her dirt drive to her stable in the dead of night in nothing but her nightwear, energy zapped from the previous days’ work, she might have rethought bringing a loaded gun in her condition. As it is, Jamie’s lucky to have remembered to but her boots on.

Grunting in frustration, Jamie yanks one of the stable’s sliding doors open. She cocks the shotgun for the intimidation factor, and barks into the dark: “If you idiots brought firecrackers onto my property again, so help me god, I will stuff you before I drag you boys back to your Pa.”

No reply. The horses continue to pace and whiny and huff. Whatever the little bastards have been doing in Jamie’s stable has them absolutely spooked. Jamie curses under her breath and switches on the lights. She sees no one; not a single sign that the Davidson’s had been anywhere near her horses.

Jamie grips the shotgun in both hands and walks down the aisle to check the stalls, both occupied and empty. She wasn’t stupid—they were there somewhere.

Or not.

She goes up and down and checks every stall twice. Jamie sees no hide or hair of the little bastards. They must have snuck out the back before she even got to the door. If they think Jamie wasn’t gonna head down to their farm first thing tomorrow to rat them out to their father, they had another thing coming.

_ But first,  _ she thinks,  _ damage control. _

Connecticut, Jamie’s very pregnant mare, has kicked over her water in her distress, and is now promptly kicking all of her hay and wood shaving bedding into one corner of the stall in a fit. Jamie grabs a rake and another bag of bedding. Tonight was just getting better and better.

It takes fifteen minutes to calm Connecticut down and re-line the stall. Jamie gently pets her flank and neck, feeds her an apple, and refills her water bucket. She nibbles at Jamie’s sleep-mussed ponytail in thanks, and flicks her tail irritably at him when she leaves.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Jamie laughs, putting her hands up to placate the bossy mare, “Promise. But it’s bedtime now.”

She slings her gun over her shoulder, triple checks the stalls, and switches the stable lights out. She halfway back to her house when the small hairs at the back of her neck stand on end, and a chill runs down her spine. Jamie feels eyes on her, all around her. She can’t explain the feeling, the sudden panic and need to  _ run.  _ The o’l Kirk instinct kicking around the lizard part of Jamie’s brain, like a sixth sense telling her she wasn’t alone, nor safe.

She hears a click and soft  _ hum,  _ like a quieter version of his electric toothbrush when its batteries are low and the bristles hardly spin.

Jamie takes a breath to steady herself, to steady her heart, anxious as it is in her chest. She turns slowly, scanning the night with wide, wary eyes. She thinks of the Davidson boys, thinks  _ this could be a prank.  _ But something in her gut tells her whatever  _ this  _ is, isn’t the work of rebellious pubescent boys. Carefully, she brings her gun down from her shoulder. She holds it in a sure grip, finger resting on the trigger. She’s an excellent shot, and her pants pocket is full of buckshot. The feel of smooth wood and cool metal makes her pulse slow a little more, but her gooseflesh persists, even in the hot air. She can hear the quiet hum and her own heartbeat.

A gentle breeze shakes the high oak tree branches. The leaves quake, create an eerie white noise.

A soft whistle and a flash of light, and Jamie’s gun flies out of her hand before she can so much as flinch.

_ “Shit!”  _ she backpedals, panicked and nearly falls on her ass. She spins on heel, tries to find whatever the holy hell just blew her shotgun out of her hands. She doesn’t see anything though, just her stable, empty fields, and her truck. Jamie thinks about diving for her gun, but she’s seen enough horror flicks to know when to say  _ ‘fuck it’ _ and make a run for the closest phone.

She does just that.

Her feet pound against uneven dirt and patchy grass. She’s sweating now, both from fear and heat, and the shotgun shells clink uselessly in her left pocket. Jamie thinks about the tiny Swiss knife in her boot, the one her daddy gave her for her twelfth birthday years and years ago. She thinks about how protected she used to feel as a child, wielding the small piece of rosewood and stainless steel. Now it felt practically useless as strong hands grab her biceps, as her feet leave the ground and her back hits it hard instead.

It’s dark, but the men trying to hold her down almost glow in the dim moonlight they’re so pale. Jamie doesn’t waste time gawking, and brings her foot up, slipping the knife out from between the calloused flesh of her heel and the worn lining of her boot, and flips it open. White hands reach for hers, but the rancher lashes out wildly. She cries out in fear and frustration, feels her small blade slice through flesh before alien syllables wash over her in a flurry.  _ Not English,  _ Jamie’s mind supplies, but even with her extensive knowledge in that area she cannot place the accent or the language.

One set of hands pull away as warm liquid splatters against Jamie’s arm. She doesn’t think, just  _ moves _ , and Jamie jackknifes up, hands clawing at the ground as she tries to find her balance back on her feet. She makes to sprint the small distance between herself and her house, but hands grab at her shoulders, turn harsh in their grip, and Jamie finds herself back on the ground. A sharp pain splits up her side.

Wind knocked out of her, Jamie gasps helplessly where there should be a scream. Her limbs lock up even as they’re forced back flat to the ground. Mouth agape and each breath a struggle, Jamie lifts her head and sees where she’s impaled herself on her own knife.

_ “Shit, _ ” she curses, but not in pain. She doesn’t feel it at first, just lays tense and watches a dark, wet stain soaks into the front of her grey tank. Her blood looks black under the moonlight, she thinks—as distant as the adrenaline numbed wound will allow her to be—especially compared to the pearlescent hands that hold down her limbs and reach for the knife in her side.

“No,” Jamie croaks out, “Don’t touch that—fuck off!”

Each word pulled at her wound and stung like hell, but every procedural cop drama or episode of  _ House _ she’d ever watched flashed to the forefront and screamed  _ “don’t pull out that knife”.  _ Jamie struggled to move, to get the hands that pinned her to the dirt to budge, but all she got for her troubles was a fire in her side and more hands to reach out and hold her down.

The hand that had been reaching for the knife stops just a hair from touching the dark, wood handle. Jamie whines in anticipation for the agony that’ll come when those long, pale fingers wrap around the hilt and pull.  _ Oh god,  _ she thinks, tears blurring her vision,  _ oh god, oh god, oh god. _

But the knife stays imbedded in her side. The hand instead puts firm pressure at the area around the wound, keeping the knife steady despite Jamie’s haggard breathing. She groans, the wound still searing her insides, as tears slip down the sides of her face.

“Please,” she begs, not entirely sure what she’s asking for. “Please,  _ please, please.” _

Jamie floats, or feels like it, from her head. She continues to beg, for minutes or hours or days, but she sounds muffled to her own ears. Was this shock? Is this what that felt like? Or was this just hysteria?

As her eyes adjust to the light, Jamie begins to notice just how  _ strange  _ her attackers are. Matching grey uniforms catch her off guard first, but pointed ears are what really throw her for a loop. Facial features seem too perfect; symmetrical and sharp and sculpted. Tipped eyebrows, inhuman strength, the strange language being spoken over her between the pale figures.

_ Jesus, aliens,  _ Jamie thinks in a rush, _ aliens, aliens, aliens! _

Cheesy B-movies come to mind first, and a hysterical giggle forces its way up Jamie’s throat and past her lips. Scenes from  _ Mars Attack _ spark to memory, but then  _ Independence Day _ and  _ War of Worlds _ does too. All those ridiculous interviews with backwoods hunters and farmers claiming to have been “abducted” and experimented on don’t seem so silly anymore, and Jamie’s not sure when she started screaming for help, but her throat is becoming sore and her back arches off the ground, her body fighting desperately to escape even as her mind wanders down prickly fear strewn paths.

Strong hands cup the sides of her head, holding even that still. Her screams taper off with a gasp. Jamie’s close to hyperventilating, the burn in her chest and the lightness in her head indicators enough of that. She needs to stay conscious she tells himself, even as her mouth and lungs fight with her on that; a smaller, strangled yell bursting from her throat without her permission.

“Neshta, neshta,” a deep voice murmurs, and Jamie feels a thumb rubbing slowly, softly at her jaw. She tries to pull away from it, coughing out a hoarse  _ ‘stop it’ _ , but the hands hold firm, and the alien words continue to trickle from pale lips.

Jamie’s not sure how long they hold her down, but eventually her limbs are too sore to protest their grip, and her head too light for her to continue to scream or call for help. She takes in the  _ aliens  _ with watery eyes, counts about six of them: five holding her down, and at least one moving around in her peripheral. For the most part, they seem as though carbon copies with their uniforms and their dark hair, but small details set them apart. Hair length, ear curve, and slight difference in facial structure. Each of them seem just as terrifying as the other from her position in the dirt, helpless.

As a grown ass women raised in the south, Jamie is not proud to admit she has been reduced to heavy, wet gasping and terrified moans. No matter how she struggles against the arms holding her down, they will not budge. The strangers hold up sterile silver  _ beeping _ devices along her body, making head gestures and nonsensical comments in their alien tongue. 

Jamie never got to finish college. Toward the end of her bachelor's degree, her father passed away of a heart attack, leaving her mother alone on the farm. Jamie moved back home  _ (miserable, as she had dreamed she’d never have to come back to bumfuck nowhere, U.S.A. ever again)  _ and did what any good daughter would do; but Jamie was well read. She’d never really stopped her schooling, even if she had officially dropped out. Through the panic and the pain, Jamie was studying the aliens just as they in turn studied her.

They were waiting for something. The sixth alien walking around them held what looks like an incredibly complex cellphone. It would look at it, press a few buttons, pace back and forth, and repeat. Occasionally, one of the others that held her down would turn to the Pacing Alien with an inquisitive tone. This would prompt another round of checking the  _ ‘cell phone’  _ and pressing more buttons.

Jamie’s mind filters back to the ridiculous retellings of all those  _ abduction  _ survivors. Never in her life would she had thought those lunatics would be reference material. In several cases, the person had described the  _ ‘beings’  _ paralyzing them before they were carried away by a beam of light. Could that be what was happening, were these freaks waiting for their  _ ride? _

And what about her mother? Bless her heart, Winona Kirk had need sleeping pills since her husband's passing. But if Jamie’s screaming had roused her, would these bastards go for her too? 

Jamie looked up at the alien holding her head, thumbs still drawing gentle shapes from her jaw to her temple. Through tear blurred vision she gazed into dark eyes, willing for the being above her to know that, if they took Jamie or dared to touch Winona, if they  _ abducted  _ either of them, she would give them hell. Jamie Tiberius Kirk laid down for no one; was docile to none. It didn’t matter if they were some aliens super-race or Jesus Christ himself, she would give them  _ hell. _

_ Something _ must have come across, because the alien’s expression changed from impassive to grave, his eyes raising to Jamie’s house, to Winona’s window. He said something in his alien tongue-- _ “Dahr lan-tol wuh krani. Wuh’ashiv kotik. Ish-veh lau ru nam-tor d’wonil.”-- _ head gesturing towards the house.

“Wait!”

_ Could they read minds? _

The alien who had been pacing nodded an affirmative before turning away and out of Jamie’s field of sight. The next thing she heard was the sound of her kitchen screen door opening and closing on creaking hinges.

“No, stop!” she screamed, voice hoarse and breaking. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ touch her!”

More tears spilled down her cheeks. She couldn’t fight their hold again, she was too tired and in too much pain. She lays in misery instead, but god help these bastards if they touched her mother.

Between sobs and yelling, Jamie begins to cough, the feeling of something slick and coppery in her throat. She tries to smother it at first, but it become uncontrollable. Her mouth fills after a particular hard cough, clearing her throat, and it bubbles past her lips in a disgusting drizzle.

It didn’t feel like spit.

The alien above her uses on of his hands to wipe at her chin and cheeks, pale white hand pulling back dripping with drool and  _ blood.  _

“That can’t be good,” she mumbles to herself. The alien chatter picks up in fever, concern spreading around the group.

The Pacing Alien comes rushing out from her house, Winona Kirk in his arms; her sleeping gown billowing about his legs. She must have still been out from her medication, because she did not put up any kind of a fight, her face lax with sleep. 

The alien holding Jamie’s head stands to take the overly complicated cell phone out of the other’s occupied hands. This alien too pressed some buttons, but when he spoke into the device it was with a certain kind of authority, like her father when he got angry and slipped into his drill sergeant headspace. 

More alien tongue came whistling out from the cell phone, responding to the demand and urgency spoken to it. The alien pocketed the device and came swiftly back to his place by Jamie’s head, one hand touching her temple in what was supposed to be a placating gesture.

Before Jamie could spit any profanities about where the guy could shove his platitudes, spheres and glitters of light began to swivel around them, little tornadoes dancing about each of their persons.

_ This is it,  _ Jamie thinks, before the light becomes too intense for her to keep her eyes open.  _ I’m going to end up one of those nut jobs abducted by aliens. _

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
